


Profane

by taeyongseo



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Angel Jaemin, Barebacking, Church Sex, Human Jeno, Inaccurate Catholicism, M/M, Praise Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24796039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taeyongseo/pseuds/taeyongseo
Summary: Jeno prays. Jaemin is the angel who answers.
Relationships: Lee Jeno/Na Jaemin
Comments: 75
Kudos: 668
Collections: The 97z Steam Cloud Collection





	Profane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bunnyctzen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnyctzen/gifts).



> For Lee. I really hope you like this fic, I had a blast writing it and I tried my best to make it good and work with the prompt you gave me. I'm not sure this is what you had in mind, but I hope you like it nonetheless! All my love to you, my darling dude <3
> 
> General disclaimers:  
> 1\. This fic is definitely blasphemous. If that is something you cannot withstand, you shall exit now.  
> 2\. The contents of this fic are for entertainment purposes only. This is a work of complete fiction. This work does not reflect upon the real life people mentioned in this fictional story, and the non-fictive people named are not affiliated with this story in any way.  
> 3\. The story and its characters belong to me. Do not repost anywhere and do not print/distribute.
> 
> [[background music]](http://open.spotify.com/playlist/7kP5yb1p9sEKkGY9cdaiaD?si=qKC9kQnIT9OrJ64mF-9_ag)
> 
> Enjoy!

Jeno is eight the first time he sees his angel.

He is supposed have his head lowered like the rest of the mass attendees, like his mother and father have on either side of him, but he can’t keep his head down when there’s a bird on the ceiling. He saw it out of the corner of his eye when he came in and it has been fluttering around his mind ever since. When the air inside the church goes still with silent prayer, he looks up.

Joy fills him when he sees that the bird is still there. He frowns. Except that the bird is not a bird but a boy, his legs swinging where he’s sitting on the rotten wood of the crossbeam, black wings spanning nearly the entire length of it. They’re magnificent, more beautiful than even the wings on the figurines that litter the house of Jeno’s grandmother. Apart from the wings, the boy’s wearing normal trousers, grey linen like Jeno might have seen hanging on the clothesline in his neighbours’ garden. His feet and chest are bare, and Jeno worries that he might be cold, this high up in the air and with winter raging outside the church walls.

Nonetheless, it all makes for a mighty sight and Jeno knows his name, even if he dare not speak it.

 _Angel,_ he thinks and the angel’s wings seem to flutter as he meets Jeno’s gaze. His eyes are colourless, as if he were a painting and his eyes had not yet been filled in.

The angel waves at him, a brilliant smile lighting up his features and Jeno instinctively waves back.

His mother must catch his movement out of the corner of her eye and Jeno receives a sharp slap on the back of the head, immediately lowering his head like the good son, the good devotee he is. There is no sound in the air except for the collective breath of the other parishioners, the crackling of the candles next to the altar, but still Jeno’s chest fills with the feeling of laughter. It is not his own.

When the silent prayer ends and Father Kim in the front steps over to the rostrum, Jeno chances another glance upwards. The crossbeam is empty.

He frowns, biting his bottom lip to hide the expression before his father can see. Jeno is eight years old, but he is not stupid. He knows that angels aren’t supposed to really be real yet he knows what he has seen. Even now, when he closes his eyes, he can see the angel, the light flutter of his wings and broad expanse of his chest.

That night, when she comes into his room for evening prayer, Jeno asks his mother whether angels exists.

“Of course.” His mother smiles at him and kisses his forehead. “You are one, Jeno. My angel that God has sent to bring joy to your father and I.”

That’s not what he meant, but the rings under his mother’s eyes are prominent and so he decides not to ask. A small part of him is also afraid that he might still get punished for not being obedient during silent prayer, so he burrows under the covers and pretends to fall asleep while his mother sings to him words of His praise.

The last thought he has is that if he was sent to his parents to bring them joy, maybe the angel was sent to Jeno to bring _him_ joy.

✟

Jeno never sees the angel outside of church, but he _does_ continue to see him. His angel is always there, a flutter of wings to distract him during eucharistic prayer and a bout of laughter ringing in his head when he receives his first communion.

Despite the tight confines of his suit (a second-hand piece that Jeno had inherited from his cousin) and the way the bound attention of the other parishioners is making his palms feel sweaty, he can’t help but smile as he glances upwards to find his angel watching him. The angel has a bag of hosts in his lap and he mirrors Jeno as Jeno places the wafer of holy bread on his tongue.

Together, they eat.

The host sucks the spit from Jeno’s tongue, leaves his mouth dry but he can’t help but giggle when he sees the angel’s expression scrunch up, his nostrils flaring as he glares down at the bag of hosts on his lap. Jeno feels a little envious of the way his angel is allowed to show his distaste so openly. Jeno’s mother would probably kill him if he pulled a face, chewing with his mouth open like that.

She hugs him as he returns to their pew, his father clapping him on the back and they both welcome him to the church with whispered congratulations and promises of the party that the neighbours have organised for him. Jeno can’t help but steal another glance upwards, at the crossbeam where his angel has sprawled himself out on his belly to watch the rest of the communion. He wonders whether the other would like cake.

✟

Jeno is fifteen the first time his angel saves his life.

It has rained the night before and the air inside the church is heavy, damp as he presses his forehead to his folded hands. His knees ache from the hard wood of the pew’s plank and his thoughts are nothing but prayer when something tickles his nape, like the brush of a finger against skin, but it’s infinitely smoother almost…light as a feather. Jeno blinks his eyes open and raises his head, finding everyone else’s head still bowed in prayer. He looks down before he looks up, his eyes widening as he sees the shiny, black feather floating to the ground by his knee.

His heart skips a beat. His angel has never shed a feather before. He glances up to where he expects the winged creature to sit. Except, his angel isn’t sitting in his usual spot. Instead, he’s standing at the far end of the crossbeam, urgency in his eyes as he catches Jeno’s gaze.

The feeling spreads in Jeno’s chest, fills him with a kind of dread that makes him unable to return to prayer. Forcing down the nausea rising in his chest, he searches for what the angel wants to show him. He trails the rotten wood of the crossbeam and his heart sinks when his eyes catch onto the beam’s middle point. The wood is darker there, swollen with moisture. Rain must have penetrated the roof and eaten away at the wood, Jeno realises and then his heart sinks further when he sees the first splinters of wood bursting, trickling onto the altar where the pastor is blessing the wine. If the beam collapses, it will come down right onto Father Kim.

Another push of urgency inside his chest that is not his own.

Jeno acts before he can think about it. Ignoring his mother’s horrified gasp, he pushes himself out of their pew and into the middle aisle, sprinting towards the front. Wine goes splashing everywhere as he tackles Father Kim, sending them both sailing to the floor behind the altar.

Not a second later, the air fills with a crack as loud as thunder and then the crossbeam is collapsing, crashing down onto the stone tiles between the altar and the pew. Paint and dust rains from the ceiling and for a moment Jeno sees nothing but grey, feels his chest constrict with the dust settling in his lungs. The air clears as if by a big gust of wind, dust and debris settling and Jeno only coughs once more when Father Kim claps him on the back, pulls them both to their feet.

Jeno hears the Father’s muffled voice asking him whether he’s hurt, his head shaking automatically as he looks upwards. His angel is nowhere in sight, but Jeno knows that he’s still there. He’s always there. Jeno sees him in the church, but he always feels him.

Knowing that his angel will hear him, he sends a grateful prayer upwards. For the Father’s life, and for his own.

What he receives in return feels like chastisement, a slap on the back of the head like his father does when Jeno does something especially stupid. I’m sorry for being reckless, Jeno tags onto the end of his prayer and his chest fills with contentment instead, a warning not to do it again.

While his eyes are still on the ceiling, the bema fills with his parents and other parishioners, his mother crying as his father looks numb from shock next to her and both of their hands reach out to hold onto the back of his jacket as if they were plucking the wings from his back.

The next day, the town newspaper prints an article about his heroic deed. He receives a dozen gift baskets from different businesses in town and it becomes virtually impossible for him to accompany his mother to the grocery store without any of the aunties pinching his cheek, telling his mother what a wonderful son she raised.

It makes Jeno happy that his mother is happy, glowing under the praise of their community, but he himself finds his stomach in knots every time someone congratulates him. He feels bad accepting praise for something that was not his doing. It was not his good deed. It was his angel that warned him, that saved the Father’s life.

But Jeno is not eight anymore. He knows that angels aren’t real. Shouldn’t be. Other people don’t see them. His angel is an exception only visible to him. A secret.

Jeno will keep it.

✟

Jeno is twenty the first time he gets drunk.

They’ve spent the night in Yangyang’s basement, passing between them the bottle of whisky Renjun had stolen from his father’s liquor cabinet and on his way home, Jeno passes by the church. It’s an instinctual decision to go inside. It is cold outside, snow falling from the sky in fat flakes, and he knows the church will be warmer.

The door is unlocked like it always is and he wobbles into the dark without fear. He hits his hip on a pew before he finds the middle aisle, but eventually he manages to find his way to the back of the church. He wants to get to the altar, see whether there’s a drop of wine left for him in the golden cup, but he never makes it that far.

The floor is slippery, his sneakers squeaking over the polished stone before they lose grip and he falls. He lands on his knees first before he tips over until he’s sprawled out on his back, looking up at the gilded ceiling.

A giggle escapes him.

He was wrong. The church is not warmer. It is just as cold as the outside and he thinks that his body might be stuck frozen to the cold stone underneath him. A shiver runs down his spine and then he properly freezes when he hears steps drawing closer.

Despite his addled brain, he knows he’ll be in the trouble of his life if Father Kim finds him trespassing this late at night, rolling around on the ground drunk off his ass. But what Jeno hears are not the heavy, dull footfalls of the pastor that Jeno is so used to hearing pass by his pew during mass.

Instead, it’s closer to a slapping sound. Bare feet against stone instead of soles. Jeno squints, the moonlight falling in through the stained-glass windows doing little to help him see. He wants to call out but his tongue is so heavy. His eyelids are heavy, too, slipping shut before he knows it.

“Poor, pious boy, fallen from grace.” The voice is deep, so much deeper than Jeno expected and beyond the reprimand, there is amusement in the melody of the words. “You should not be here, Lee Jeno.”

“Sorry,” Jeno slurs, his eyes still closed but he knows that voice. He has never heard it, but he knows it. It is comfort to him.

“Don’t apologise, my love. They don’t deserve you, anyways.”

Jeno wants to pry his eyes open but he can’t. “I did something stupid,” he confesses easily. He feels safe. The words come easier over his lips than they ever did in the confessional. “’m not supposed to drink. Mother says that’s what—” He giggles when a hiccup escapes him. ”—bad boys do.”

“And you’re such a good boy, Jeno, aren’t you? You should not castigate yourself for indulging in some vices. You are human and therefore you will fall for one of them.” 

Jeno shakes his head. He wants to argue that he is good. He wants to open his eyes so badly, but the harder he tries, the further he’s sinking. It does seem awfully tempting, to—

“Just let go, my love. I have you.”

Something eternally soft brushes Jeno’s cheek. He thinks of rain and of wood splintering, of myrrh and black-winged birds who are not birds at all. Vaguely, he registers a hand on his nape, on his leg sliding underneath his knee cap and then he’s weightless and the blood rushing in his ears is accompanied by the fluttering of feathers, the steady hum of a voice lulling him to sleep.

It’s warm, in the grasp of his angel, and Jeno falls easily. 

When he wakes up, he’s in his bed, his head pounding with what promises to be the hangover headache of his life. His mouth is dry as cotton and he nearly feels himself go blind when his phone lights up on the nightstand.

He’s got a dozen texts from his friends and seven missed calls from Renjun. Squinting against the bright, artificial light, he sends his friends a row of emojis into the group chat that he hopes will convey to them that he’s made it home safe and sound.

How, he can’t remember, but when he lets his phone fall back onto the night stand and buries his face under the pillow, he feels his lips press against something soft, tickly. A confused noise escapes him and he lifts his pillow to see that it’s a feather lying underneath his pillow. It’s glossy and black, reflecting purple in the bright sunlight falling in through his open blinds. Beautiful.

Jeno gingerly picks it up, twirling it between his fingers before he presses it against his lips once more. Something resonates in his chest, something warm and gentle and fierce and bright, so bright that Jeno pulls away with a gasp. He looks at the feather, almost expects it to glow, but it does not. It’s just as shiny and black as it was when Jeno first picked it up.

He places it in his bedside drawer, decides to deal with it when he has slept off the worst of his hangover. Pulling the duvet over his head, he falls asleep easily and when he dreams, he dreams of colourless eyes and a deep, melodic voice telling him that he is good.

✟

Jeno is twenty-one when he learns his angel’s name.

He goes to school now in the city, but he comes home every week to attend mass on Sunday. His family and Father Kim praise his devotion. Jeno accepts the praise with his head bowed and a wandering eye. He is good and so no one notices that when everyone else bows their heads, Jeno raises his gaze to the ceiling.

His angel is always there, watching him.

It is Saturday night and the youth group he leads has run late. He’s the last one left, locking up the Father’s office where they keep the stackable chairs when he hears the crash. Worried that one of his kids might have hurt themselves on the way out, he runs out of the office and scans the nave with his eyes.

A gasp escapes him when he sees the fallen candle holder, red wax dripping down the steps leading up to the altar like blood spilling over stone. On the altar, his angel sits cross-legged, wings spread out so wide they nearly touch the side walls of the church. His eyes are on Jeno.

Jeno knows no better than to fall to his knees.

“You—” His throat closes up.

A single beat of the mighty wings is enough to lift the angel into the air and then he’s gliding, landing softly on the stone floor. His bare feet carry him down the middle aisle. The angel comes to a halt in front of Jeno and Jeno can’t breathe. He’s never come this close. He’s never had the chance to study his angel as he stands before him, less than an arm length away and so glorious that Jeno feels tears welling up in his eyes.

With a shuddered breath, he presses his forehead to the ground, clasps his hands over his head and begins to pray, _“Father God, I kneel before You knowing that I have sinned. In what I have said and done, as well as in the impure thoughts that flood through my mind. I know that I am a sinner. Lord, bestow upon me the forgiveness that I do not deserve and preserve my eternal soul. I—”_

It’s a hand against his cheek, lifting his face from the ground that makes him stutter and break off. He almost doesn’t dare raise his gaze from the floor, but there’s a pull of discontentment in his chest and so he looks up.

The angel’s brows draw together as he wipes the tears from Jeno’s cheeks. “Why are you praying for forgiveness, Jeno?”

Jeno lightly shakes his head. His hands are shaking as he reaches out, but he doesn’t dare touch his angel so he fists them helplessly in the air. “I ask Him for forgiveness so He won’t punish me. I don’t want Him to take you away from me again.”

The angel’s laughter is light, more beautiful than any choir Jeno has ever heard.

“Silly boy,” he says and his face is so close to Jeno’s, so close he can feel the angel’s breath. “Taking me away from you is something even He couldn’t do.”

“How can you know that?”

“You know it, too.” The angel’s gaze is intense. “You must know.”

And Jeno does. He knew it at eight, at ten, at fifteen and twenty. “You are mine.” Jeno thinks that this is what a Revelation must feel like. “You are my angel.” He pushes himself up to his knees. “What’s your name?” He can’t withstand another second without knowing.

“I have many names, but you can call me Jaemin. It means—”

“God’s gift.”

Jaemin nods, a small smile playing on his lips. “That is what I was supposed to be.”

The angel’s gaze seems far away as he says it and so Jeno doesn’t pry. Instead, he slowly gets to his feet and shakily reaches out a hand, stops short before his finger tips brush the abundance of sleek black in front of him. “Can I touch your wings?”

“I am yours, Jeno.” Jaemin’s smile is indulgent. “You can touch me however you want to.”

Jeno’s mouth falls open as his hands sink into the feathers. It’s an indescribable feeling. The feathers are softer than anything else Jeno has ever felt, running through his fingers like water.

“Your wings are beautiful,” he whispers reverently. It’s not a surprise that they are. Jaemin himself is glorious.

“As are you, Jeno.”

Jeno flushes. It’s not until this moment that Jeno realises how close he had gotten to the angel. Their lips nearly brush when Jaemin tilts his head to study his face. “I can see it in your face that you want. What do you want?”

The answer is easy, and it is not.

Jeno swallows. “I really only want two things.”

“Mhm?” Jaemin licks his lips. “What are they?”

“For one, I-I want to be ordained.”

“You want to be a priest?” It’s not really a question.

Jeno nods. He’s joined the seminar and in a couple of years, when Father Kim will retire, it will be Jeno’s turn.

“There is no one better suited than me to take care of our community.” Jeno can’t help the hint of pride that he feels. “Father Kim told me so. He says I will be a good priest.”

Jaemin hums. “Yes, you will. They will come from wide and far to hear you, to worship with you. What is the other thing that you want?”

Jeno feels his cheeks flush, his heart pounding in his ears. He can see in Jaemin’s eyes that the angel already knows. It is because he knows Jeno. Jeno couldn’t hide it from him, even if he tried to.

“You,” he breathes and watches as a slow, brilliant smile takes over Jaemin’s features.

“But you already have me.” Jaemin’s nose brushes his cheek, his hand sliding over Jeno’s waist to press their bodies together. “Right here.”

“No, I want…” Jeno can’t say it. It is improper, impure. He has never lusted after someone, but it is so hard to withstand the desire he feels when Jaemin’s broad chest is pressed against his, their lips nearly brushing when Jaemin lifts his head from his neck.

His gaze is so heavy it makes Jeno feel hot all over, parched where he never knew himself to thirst before. He knows only his angel can wet his throat.

In the corner of Jaemin’s smile, Jeno sees God. “It’s okay, my love. I already know. I feel the same.”

Jeno stumbles when Jaemin spins them around so they’re walking up the steps he descended earlier and Jeno can’t help the gasp that escapes him when he finds himself seated on top of the altar, pushed onto his back.

Jaemin ascends into the air with a single beat of his wings and descends on top of him, his thighs caging Jeno’s hips. “Is this what you want?” he asks and Jeno can’t help but gape with his mouth open at the sight of Jaemin, mighty with his wings spread and a brilliant smile on his face.

“Yes,” Jeno manages, breathless. “Please, take me.”

Jaemin’s smile is brilliant. “As you wish.”

When Jaemin kisses him, Jeno feels every inch of his body come alive and he wonders, he wonders whether this is what it feels like to be kissed by the Lord himself. It’s hard to linger on such thoughts, though, when the heavenly creature on top of him slip his hands under his sweater.

Jaemin’s fingers are warm against his skin, exploring gently. Jeno lifts his upper body off the altar so Jaemin can divest him of the sweater he’s wearing. When he lowers himself back down, he shivers against the cold stone beneath him, but a moment later Jaemin’s mouth is hot on his skin and Jeno can’t help the whine that escapes him.

Jaemin smiles into his skin, his tongue wet as it presses against Jeno’s nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive bud and Jeno can feel himself harden, so fast that it almost leaves him dizzy. A groan escapes him when Jaemin’s hand presses down on his groin.

“Please,” he begs and Jaemin smiles up at him, surges forward to press their mouths together.

“Take your pants off for me,” Jaemin murmurs against his lips and Jeno wants to cry when, in the next moment, Jaemin’s weight on top off him is gone, wind brushing his bare skin as Jaemin pushes himself in the air and lands behind the altar.

Jeno cranes his neck to see what he is doing, but Jaemin’s wings obscure his vision and so he does as he’s been told instead. His hard cock slaps against his stomach as soon he has pushed his trousers down and he barely refrains from touching himself. He knows he would come if he did and he doesn’t want to do that. He wants Jaemin.

The sound of the angel’s bare footfalls comes first and Jeno watches as Jaemin walks around the altar, Jaemin’s hand trailing the edge of the stone and his gaze taking in every inch of Jeno’s body. It should make Jeno squirm, to be admired so openly, but he only feels flushed, his palms sweaty as he balls them into fists.

Jaemin’s wings flutter and he is back on top of the altar, bare legs spreading as he straddles Jeno’s thighs. A naked Jaemin is a sight to behold in itself. Jeno’s mouth falls open in a gasp when Jaemin trails his fingers down his chest, over his cock and presses them into his hip.

“Angels would fall to have you, Jeno. I’m so glad that you have chosen me.”

“I’m yours just as much as you are mine.”

Jeno thought that Jaemin knew this, but the tender smile that blooms on Jaemin’s face tells him otherwise. Jaemin leans down, kisses Jeno eagerly, almost desperately until Jeno’s breathless and panting, the world shrinking to nothing but the angel on top of him.

Jaemin raises himself up onto his haunches and reaches over Jeno’s head. When he pulls back, he’s holding a familiar jug of oil and Jeno gasps as Jaemin pours a generous amount of the consecration oil over Jeno’s groin. It spills down his hips and legs and soaks the stone underneath him, but Jeno can’t find it in himself to worry about the mess, not when Jaemin is finally wrapping his fingers around his cock, pulling him once, twice before letting go and grabbing onto Jeno’s neck instead.

Jeno pliantly opens his mouth when Jaemin’s tongue pushes against his teeth, groans at the feeling of Jaemin licking into his mouth. His hips buck upwards on their own accord and Jaemin laughs into his mouth.

“I like you eager.”

Jeno wants to whine, wants to apologise but he gets to do neither because then Jaemin is grabbing onto his cock once more, lifting himself up before he aligns the head of Jeno’s cock with his hole and slowly sinks down. Jeno groans at the hot, slick pleasure surrounding his cock, but then his eyes widen and, for a moment, he is too overwhelmed with concern to pay attention to the pleasure. “D-doesn’t it hurt?”

Jaemin laughs into his neck. “I’m not human, Jeno. You can’t hurt me.”

Jeno accepts this with a nod, his breath falling short when Jaemin’s ass meets his hips and every of his nerve ending tingles with the feeling of being sheathed inside of Jaemin. The heat coursing through his body is overwhelming, mind-numbing and Jeno thinks it couldn’t get any more intense until Jaemin starts moving on top of him, pulling himself up slowly before dropping back down.

He fits, he fits on top of Jeno as if he was made for him and Jeno moans. _“Fuck,_ Jaemin.”

Something about the curse word spilling over Jeno’s lips seems to elate Jaemin beyond measure and he picks up his pace, leans down to press their lips together as works himself on top of Jeno. Jeno moans into their kiss, loud and shamelessly like he’s never moaned before and he’s rewarded by nails raking down his ribs, Jaemin’s walls clenching around his cock as his pace becomes frantic.

“Jaemin!”

“That’s it, Jeno,” Jaemin groans into his mouth and his words are so filthy, his voice is so angelic. “Call to me. Call to _me.”_

“Jaemin,” Jeno breathes. “Oh my—” His throat goes tight. “Jaemin!”

The bare skin of his shoulder blades presses into the stone altar beneath him as he arches his back and fucks up his hips, meeting Jaemin halfway. Jaemin’s gasps, his wings twitching and fluttering and then his hands are sliding into Jeno’s hair, pulling his head back so Jeno’s chin juts forward.

It’s not a kiss this time, their open mouths sliding against each other without aim, but it’s all that Jeno needs. It’s all that he wants, to feel Jaemin’s body on top of his own, to feel Jaemin’s walls wrapped around his length and hear Jaemin’s angelic voice sing praise into his ear.

“So good, my love.” Jeno sees sweat trickle down Jaemin’s neck, a blissed-out smile on the angel’s face. “You’re fucking me so good.”

Jeno shudders with the realisation that this is what he’s doing. He’s inside of Jaemin, their bodies moving as one as Jaemin rides him and he can’t help the sob that tears from his throat. His arms slide around Jaemin’s waist and he pulls him closer, closer until their chests are flush together. It leaves Jaemin unable to move while Jeno ruts up into him, heat pooling in his stomach.

He whimpers when Jaemin’s hands find their way to his cheeks and his voice is so full of fondness when he says, “My good, pious boy.”

Jeno comes with a shout, such intense pleasure coursing through his body that he blacks out shortly. When he comes to, it’s dark where Jaemin has folded his wings over them and the angel is kissing the tears from Jeno’s eyes.

Being inside Jaemin hurts now, but he can’t pull out. Not yet. Breathing shakily, he wraps his fingers around the angel’s length and jerks him off until Jaemin spills over his fingers, his teeth digging painfully into Jeno’s shoulder as he wails out his pleasure.

Jeno feels it reverberate in his own chest and nearly comes again, his dick twitching before finally, Jaemin slides off of him. Cool wind passes over Jeno’s overheated skin at the flutter of Jaemin’s wings and he turns his head so he can meet Jaemin’s half-lidded eyes, bask in the gentle smile on the angel’s lips.

Jaemin’s hand is still on his cheek, gingerly caressing it. Jeno reaches out to touch the feathers closest to him, lifts his upper body when Jaemin folds his wing to slide under him. Jeno beds his head on soft feathers and runs his fingers over them, revels in the way it makes Jaemin shiver as he throws a leg over the angel’s waist.

“I always thought that an angel’s wings were white.”

Jaemin laughs at that, as if Jeno had unknowingly told a joke. “No, my love, white is reserved for those who never rebelled.”

Jeno freezes in his movements, his eyes widening. “You mean—”

Jaemin cuts him off with a kiss. “Do you love me, Jeno? Are you devout to me?”

“I do.” The answer comes over Jeno’s lips without thought. “I am.”

“Then don’t ask.” Jaemin’s eyes are intense as they bore into Jeno’s. “It is not a story fit for your ears.”

Jeno swallows, but accepts Jaemin’s words, if it makes worry pull on his heart.

The question comes quietly, “If I love you, does He hate me now?”

Jaemin’s eyes darken. “He wouldn’t dare.” Then his expression softens. “You are human, Jeno. I have lost His favour, but you never will. He loves you so much, more than He ever loved any of my kind. In His eyes, all of your sins will be forgiven at the end.”

Jeno wants to cry with relief. He wouldn’t know what to do without his faith, and he wouldn’t know what to do without Jaemin, either. Not now, that he knows what his angel tastes like, feels like, sounds like.

“I am grateful.”

A soft kiss is pressed to his lips. “You are good, Lee Jeno, and as much as I want to taint you, your soul is untouchable to me and anyone else. I only own your heart.”

“You do,” Jeno says and basks in the love shining in Jaemin’s eyes.

He knew it when he was eight and ten and fifteen and twenty. This angel is his.

✟

Jeno is twenty-eight when he takes over the church.

Father Kim ceremonially hands him the keys during mass and when Jeno kneels, it is a familiar pain. He keeps his head lowered as the Father lays his hands onto his hair, blessing him for all the years to come and Jeno can only think of how convenient it is, that the high collar of his pastoral robes hides the bruises littering his neck, the cross raked onto his back with blunt nails.

He rises as Father Lee, ready to baptise and bury and lead the mass every Sunday.

The church members lower their heads to pray for his well-being and Jeno looks up. His angel is sitting on the new, sturdy crossbeam of the church, clapping slow enough to not make a sound. Jeno laughs silently.

The parishioners pray and Jeno prays too, to God and his angel five metres above.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, I'm happy about any kind of feedback! ^_^ <3  
>   
> ( [twitter](http://twitter.com/taeyongseo) | [curiouscat](http://curiouscat.me/taeyongseo) )


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